Useless

“I feel so useless.”

She didn’t say it looking for attention or for pity. She didn’t say it as a statement for dramatic effect. She said it almost in passing.

She is an almost 96-year old lady I met yesterday. I had stopped by her home at the retirement community to bring her Communion because her ride to Mass had fallen through. It was the first time she’d missed Mass in almost 60 years, she said. She doesn’t have a car – although she said that she could still drive if she’d had it. But when she moved to the retirement center a few years ago, there was a shuttle bus that she could ride to church. So she sold her car.

Selling that car was one of her big mistakes, she said. That, and selling her house on 10 acres and moving away from the community where she’d lived for her entire adult life, where all of her friends are.

She used to volunteer at the hospital and at the retirement center, but health concerns have taken her out of that.

If it wasn’t so far to church – at least 3-4 miles – she said she would walk. She always thought she would like to live next to the church so she wouldn’t have trouble getting to Mass. I suggested she call our priest and ask about moving into the spare bedroom in the rectory. We both laughed, even though the eternal optimist in me was 1/16^th serious.

“I feel so useless.”

It was my turn to feel useless. I wanted to fix the situation for this sweet woman. I suggested maybe she could write letters and cards to soldiers. There is a need for that. She nodded and then held up her tremoring hands, saying that writing is more and more difficult these days.

I told her that I would be happy to give her a ride to Mass when she needed one. I wrote down my phone number even though she said she wouldn’t call me because she was sure my life was so busy. I promised that I would tell her “no” if I couldn’t help, but I’d be happy to drive her if it worked out.

We shared the Eucharist, said a few prayers, and visited for a few more minutes. Then I left to get back to my busy life. But I’m still thinking about her and wondering how many thousands of older people feel useless and what I, what we can each do, to embrace them, letting them know how needed they are in our world. 

The worst Lenten sacrifice ever

This year I made my worst Lenten sacrifice ever. No, I didn't give up chocolate or Diet Coke...that's child's play. This is even worse than when I gave up sitting on my couch. This year I gave up Facebook and I am struggling, people.

I know that lamenting here about the sacrifice makes me a Pharisee who walks around in ashes and cloth asking for attention. I promise this is a one-time only whine because holeeeeey smokes, what have I done?!

I've been nudged to give up Facebook for Lent by a good friend for a few years. A couple of times I tried to dictate one day of the week during Lent would be Facebook-free. I called it "Holy Thursdays." Let's just say I had minimal success with that. 

A few weeks ago, I got this urge from inside that I should give up Facebook for Lent. I ignored it. Then some friends started saying they might do it too. I let the idea rise to the surface of my brain again. But I just didn't know. Finally, on Fat Tuesday, I just decided to go Facebookless or go home. I hastily wrote a "see ya after Easter" note on my 4th Frog Facebook page and my personal timeline. Then I handed Annie my laptop and told her to change my password. 

Wow. This is hard. It hasn't even been a week yet, but I feel so isolated. I can't tell you how many times I want to shoot a quick message to someone, only I can't because I don't have their email address or phone number. I'm just connected via Facebook.

I wonder how certain friends are doing and what new fun my group of blogging friends is up to. And my Catholic moms group is no longer just a keyboard away when I want to share a prayer request or tell them that Robbie decided for this Lent he is going to start listening to the homily.  

Of course, I could give up this giving up of Facebook. I could say it's too hard. To which my mother would reply "Do you think Jesus thought it was too hard to climb up on that cross and die for you?" But I am determined, at least for today, to persist. 

It's the community that I miss on Facebook. Ok, and some of the "which color M&M are you" Buzzfeed quizzes. I've attempted to find community among the tweeps on Twitter. I'm not new there, but it's just not Facebook. In my experience, tweeting is like farting in the wind...you never really know if anyone realized you did it (or tweeted it in this case) before the wind takes it away unless someone says something. I can count on one hand the number of times a Facebook post went unanswered or at least unliked. (So, I might be supposed to learn something about humility I suppose.)

My resolve is strong because Annie changed my password so I don't have a choice I truly believe this was a message from my heart. I consider this first week the detox phase. I've spent the time trying to fill the void with Twitter and Words with Friends, you know, just until the shakes pass. Now I feel myself ready to move into the purpose of this Lenten sacrifice, to seek what I'm supposed to find in this digital isolation. I have some books to read, some letters to write, and yes some praying to do. 

Can I make it five more weeks without Facebook? I'm going to try. But I'm pretty sure that on Easter morning the first thing I'm going to do after I snatch the Reese's eggs from my basket before Mike can get to them is to have Annie log me back into Facebook for my own resurrection of sorts. 

Where would you be?

I feel like I am losing my mind. But really, I'm just losing my stuff. I've tried the prayer to St. Anthony:

Tony, Tony look around.
Something's lost and can't be found.
Please help me find...

Either St. Anthony is sleeping on the job or he's trying to teach me a lesson about taking care of my things. I have cleaned out more than one closet with no luck. So now I'm here enlisting your help (and hoping that at least one person who reads my blog is psychic).

Where would you be if you were...

• one black El Naturalista clog with cute swirly white stitching 
• one silver Dr. Scholl flat 
• my favorite pair of Vera Wang jammies (from Kohl's) that my husband bought me for Christmas last year
• the security card that lets me into my office building (don't worry boss, it's been gone a while)
• a cute little vintage-looking Santa pin that I swear was on the counter next to the refrigerator
• 3 green mini bungee cords that are used to hang stockings with care
• a red cardigan sweater that will go perfectly with my "Believe" bling holiday shirt
• the "bit" part of my Fitbit Flex that somehow got separated from the charge

I'm serious, give me some ideas where these things might be. What is the strangest place you've ever found something you've lost? 

How did the adulteress get in here?

The scene: A desperately-needs-to-be-cleaned-out Toyota minivan

The characters: An 11-year old boy in the backseat. A 40-something Mom driving.

The boy: "Mom, what is The Adulteress about?"

The Mom: "What did you say?"

The boy: "The Adulteress. What's it about?"

The Mom -- mentally canceling cable television, wondering what bad Lifetime movie he'd been watching, making note to check the older kids' Google histories and otherwise getting worked up that an 11-year old would be asking about a trollop: "Adulteress? Where did you learn that word?!"

The boy: "My Picture Bible."

Dear Becca & Jake:

I don't know you, but I know you recently got married. I've watched a 2-minute video of your wedding about 10 times. Really, I'm not a creepy stalker. In fact, I really wasn't that interested in the video images of you. I hit "play" so many times because I was moved by the words of Fr. Todd's homily. That's how I found your video in the first place. Fr. Todd shared it on his Facebook page and being the good Catholic that I am, I watched it because my priest shared it.

He spoke about the decision to get married being a decision to deepen your love. He talked about it being a commitment. He said you were choosing to move beyond love being just a feeling, that by saying "I do," the two of you were making a decision to live in love. Not in gushy, fluttery, sweep you off your feet love. But in covenant love.

Today is my 20th wedding anniversary. I know that officially makes me old in your eyes and that's ok. With age comes wisdom. So let me share some wisdom about covenant love with you.

Covenant love is hard work. That doesn't mean it's not worth it, but some days you will question whether it is. Covenant love may ask you to give up a piece of yourself with the faith that what will fill the hole will be stronger and better than that which occupied it before. Covenant love might mean turning the other cheek. It certainly requires forgiveness and it might make you do things -- or not do things -- for which your friends and family might call you crazy, or even foolish.

If you look at that from a single-minded perspective, it might look like you're getting the short end of the stick, you might wonder why anyone would ever choose to get married. But if you both are committed to covenant love, the equation should be equal on both sides.

Fr. Todd pointed out in his homily that the wedding vows don't even say "I love you." When I heard that, I had to stop and repeat the vows my husband and I shared on our wedding day 20 years ago.

"I take you to be my spouse. In good times and in bad, in sickness and in health. I will love you and honor you all the days of my life."

Wow. From where I sit, that is powerful stuff. We promised, as did the two of you, that "I WILL love you." On your wedding day when both of you are glowing and joyful, that might be an easy enough promise to make.

I will love you...when you bring me flowers.
I will love you...when you make me laugh.
I will love you...when you let me wear your coat because I am cold and I left mine at home.
I will love you...when you get a new job.
I will love you...when we are on vacation and all the cares of the world are hundreds of miles away.

Twenty years down the road, that promise is heavy with the gravity of what that really means.

I will love you...when the bank account is stretched.
I will love you...when the laundry is backed up, the grass needs cut and dinner has not even been thought of.
I will love you...when you disappoint me.
I will love you...when you don't believe in me.
I will love you...when I am embarrassed by you.
I will love you...when you hurt me.

I will love you. I will love you. I will love you...

If I were you, I would print out those words: "I will love you." and put them somewhere you see them often. (Maybe over the toilet so Becca, you can remember them when Jake leaves the seat up.) Remind yourself, every day, of the promise you made. "I will love you." Then there is no question. You said you would. Now do.

As for my husband and I, we are. It hasn't been a decision that's been easy every day. And quite frankly, we probably haven't lived that decision, those words every day. We've considered taking those four words and stuffing them somewhere to never be seen again. But we haven't, because they are more than just words. They are the mark of the covenant we made to each other before God.

So, to you Becca & Jake, I say blessings on your new life together.

And to you, Mike, my huzzzband of 20 years, let me say once again, I will love you.

You know you're a Catholic...

... when you see this guy at the grocery store and mutter to him "G'morning Father" before you realize it's just a guy in a rain poncho.

Trying to avoid the awkward family photo

It's church directory picture time again. I'm not sure whether to arrrgh or just sigh...

Our church is pretty big, at least as far as Catholic churches go. Some 2,000 families. So have a pictorial directory is a good idea. That way you can know the name of the family who always comes in after the first reading or the one who leaves a mess of Cheerios in the pew.

The first time we had our family picture taken for the directory, there were only 3 of us and Annie was just 10 days old. The last time, there were 4 of us. Charlie was 3 years old and Annie asked the photographer if he would take a picture of just me and her. Make me melt.

Now, there are 5 of us and probably the only thing melting that will happen is the meltdown I might have about what we're all going to wear.

In the last directory, one family all wore red clown noses. It was great -- no one even looked at what they were wearing, except on their noses. Another family all wore Cincinnati Reds t-shirts. This year, friends of our all wore Butler University gear. Perfect, as he works for BU. But that doesn't help me much.

Robbie would be happy if we all wore Angry Birds outfits. Maybe Mike and I could sport the red bird and King Pig costume heads? Charlie wants to wear basketball shorts and a t-shirt. If we were to get a photo taken that really reflects who we are as a family, we'd all be holding some kind of electronic device and I'd have a Diet Coke in the other hand.

Since that would probably make us look shallow and pathetic, I'm moving on to Plan B. Mike wants to wear jeans and sport coat with a white shirt. I don't love the jeans, but don't feel like finding and ironing his khaki pants, either.  The boys would be happy in jeans and as long as I don't make them wear ties, dressing them will be pretty easy.

Annie is all set to wear a hipster-approved, vintage-look dress with cardigan that she really does look cute in.

Then there is me. I scheduled our pictures for the latest possible date so I would have time to lose 20 pounds. Yeah, like that happened. Instead, I think I've gained 5.

So between now and this evening, I have to find something in a color that looks good on me -- I'm thinking purple -- that doesn't make me look like Grimace, Barney or any other large and cartoonish character. No matter what I decide to wear, I'm pretty sure Spanx will be part of the get-up. If only they made Spanx for chins...

If I want people to recognize us at church from our picture in the directory, I'll have Robbie slumping, Charlie staring off into space, Annie twirling her hair and Mike and I on the ends looking happy to just have made it (mostly) on time.

Yeah. Not awkward at all.

So maybe he's not cut out for the priesthood

Priesthood might require a miracle.

Since Charlie was a little boy, I've thought (dreamed, maybe?) that he might one day end up being known as Father Charlie. Not that he loves church -- he doesn't, but he's always had a sensitive and spiritual side to him that makes me think he might be a good candidate for the priesthood.

I would never force him to be a priest, but I do slip the possibility into conversation from time to time. Charlie, however, has so far proven to be an unwilling character in this every-Catholic-mom fantasy. His hang-up with the idea is solidly grounded in the whole celibacy thing.

He's always had an eye for the girls, starting with his preschool crush, Mary Charlotte (at least she had a good Catholic name).

When he was 11 years old, Charlie was talking about what he might be when he grows up. Professional basketball player and professional football player were both on the list. I gently suggested that he might be open to the idea that he could be called to the priesthood. His response?

"Mom, do you really expect me to go without a woman for the rest of my life?" He was 11, people.

Last winter, Mike took him to the Super Bowl Experience when the big game was in Indianapolis. He loved getting to participate in a workshop with real NFL players, but when I asked him about his favorite part of the day?

"I got my picture taken with some New Orleans Saints cheerleaders and when one of them stood next to me, I could feel her boob on my arm."

Heaven help me.

But I didn't give up. Every once in a while, when the moment is right and the conversation lends itself, I remind him that someday God might call him to be Father Charlie. He remains unfazed and unconvinced.

Last weekend, he went to Dave & Buster's entertainment center with a friend and he came back with a bunch of junky stuff he bought with the tickets he won playing the games. Around his neck was a strand of cheap, plastic silver beads.

"I got these from a hot Dave & Buster's girl," he told me.

"You got those from a pretty Dave & Buster's girl," I corrected him.

"Ok. But Mom, she was smokin' pretty!"

Hmmm...maybe I better start working on Sister Annie or Father Robbie.

Yes, Virginia, there is something more important than the Super Bowl

Today is February 5. Super Bowl Sunday. It's also the first Sunday of the month -- the day that Charlie is scheduled to be an altar server at the 6pm Mass. Super Bowl kick-off is at 6:30pm. Mass will get out around 7pm. Does anyone see the conflict here?

When I realized about two weeks ago that Charlie was scheduled to serve during the Super Bowl -- the one that is in our very own city -- I flew to the computer to send an e-mail to the list of servers' families.

"Wanted: Server sub who doesn't care about the Super Bowl."

I sent the message twice and got zero responses. I wasn't surprised, even though I had been holding on to a tiny sliver of hope that I'd get someone who didn't know the difference between a touchdown and a field goal and who didn't care.

Charlie tried to argue that Mass could go on just fine with only two servers, instead of the usual three. And while he is right, I told him "what if the other two servers thought the same thing?"  So I was resigned to DVRing the Super Bowl, not listening to the radio in the car, staying off Facebook and watching the game on delay. Too bad this is one time you don't want to fast forward through the commercials.

Then, last night I received an e-mail from the server coordinator, asking if we'd found anyone willing to sub for Charlie at Mass tonight. I told her no, unless she knew of someone, we would be there.

She replied that she confirmed that the other two servers would indeed be there and they could probably handle Mass with just two servers if we couldn't make it.

Woohoo! Game on!

Until Mike had to open his big (and in this case, right) mouth. He pointed out that the issue is not that we can't make it -- we don't have tickets to the game, we don't have company coming over -- we just don't want to make it. By bailing on the 6pm Mass and Charlie's responsibility as an altar server, we would be sending him -- and the other kids -- a message that it's ok to shirk your responsibilities if something better comes along or if you simply don't feel like doing what you're supposed to.

So, Super Bowl XLVI is tonight. Kick-off is at 6:30pm, unless you're at our house, where kick-off will be slightly later and the first call is "Touchdown, Jesus."

Keepin' the faith

Let no one disregard you because you are young, but be an example to all the believers in the way you speak and behave, and in your love, your faith and your purity. -- 1 Timothy 4:12

For the next three days, I will be chaperoning a group of teenagers (including Annie) from our church as they join 20,000 other teens for the National Catholic Youth Conference in Indianapolis. I'm looking forward to the time away and am really hoping to be transported back to my own high school days were the LIFE group was such a huge part of my faith and social experience. 

One of the lessons I'm going to try to stay in touch with was one from a retreat the summer before my senior year of high school. "Be here now."

I'm really going to try to stay in the present while I'm gone. Not worrying about how Mike and the boys are getting along at home. Not thinking about what tasks will be waiting for me when the weekend is over. I hope that my present presence encourages the kids with us to do the same.

Mostly, I'm really looking forward to the unique exuberance kids bring to faith. I'm anticipating great music, honest faith-sharing, and of course the hilarity and silliness that comes when you get a bunch of teenagers together.

I would appreciate prayers for our group and for all the teens at the conference. In the spirit of "be here now," I don't plan to blog again until I return home on Sunday.

Enjoy the days and know I'll be keeping you in prayer as well.

My secret fantasy

Note: This post will not include anything about stripper poles, leather or anything else of an adult theme. If that's what you were hoping for, move along. Or get your mind out of the gutter and read on.

There are a few things you should know about me in order to understand my secret fantasy.

1. I love to sing, but I'm not great at it.
2. The only songs I know the words to are church music and show tunes.
3. I'm a cradle Catholic (which means I've been Catholic since I was born).

I love the Catholic church. I love the tradition and the ritual. I love the universality of it -- knowing that the Scripture we're reading on Sunday is the same one being proclaimed in a Catholic church in Honduras and Vietnam and Germany on the same day. I love the presence of Christ in the Eucharist. (And I'm not here to debate the pros and cons of Catholicism. So if that's what you were hoping for, move along.)

But one thing that is true about the Catholic church is that the music is often not exactly rockin'. Although 6pm Mass on Sunday nights at my church is as close as we Catholics dare come. Someday, I'm going to visit one of those evangelical, rockin' and swaying, churches where the music is alive. But that's not my secret fantasy.

My secret fantasy is that someday I'll stand up in the middle of my church, and moved by the Spirit, start belting out a song. This will likely always remain a fantasy because of #1 above. And because I care too much about what other people think and I'm pretty sure if I stood up in church and started singing a capella, they'd think I'd been sneaking a few too many sips of communion wine.

The closest I've ever come to even having the chance to fulfill my fantasy was last Sunday. We had a visiting priest who was there to raise money for Franciscan missions around the world. Fr. Ed was his name. Fr. Ed did exactly what I've always wanted to do. He stood up and starting singing when it was least expected:

"My God and my all, how I long to love you. To give you my heart, to give you my soul."

The difference is that a.) Fr. Ed is a priest and was running the show and b.) the man could SING.

His homily was about the fact that none of us is perfect, yet God calls each of us. I briefly considered that this was my opportunity -- to take my imperfect voice and answer the call I've felt for all these years to stand up and sing. Except that I think that "call" might actually be more ego than invitation.

Fr. Ed continued on, telling the story of an Easter Mass he was offering in Jamaica where one woman did sing out "God is not dead!" and another woman replied in song "He is alive!"

As Fr. Ed told the story, singing as the women in that small church had sung, I began to cry. I wasn't sad. It wasn't about wanting to sing out and not doing it. I was moved by the love and the Spirit these women felt, carried across the world by a priest to my own church, where that same love and Spirit touched my heart.

I think if I ever had the chance to make my secret fantasy a reality, I missed it last week. Unless I go to church in Jamaica someday.

911 Fragments

Ok, I promise that this will be the last of the posts having to do with my little adventure on Tuesday. But I still have random thoughts tied to the experience and thought what better way to use 'em up than in a Friday Fragments post.

On hospital food: After I got settled into my room in the cardiac observation unit, the nurse told me if I was hungry I could just pick up the phone and order room service. Given that my usual response to stress is to eat and that I hadn't eaten anything for about 6 hours, I thought that sounded like a great idea. Imagine my disappointment to find that chocolate frosted chocolate cupcakes were not on the heart-healthy menu in front of me! But I could have all the low-sodium chicken noodle soup, sugar-free gelatin and Diet Pepsi (ugh! Sorry, Uncle Bill) I wanted.

On faith: The hospital I went to was one I've been boycotting because of some bad experiences we've had there in the past, even though it is a Catholic hospital and I like to keep my emergencies within the flock. However, it was the closest one to the kids' school and given that I thought I might be dying or at least having a heart attack, I decided to let bygones be bygones. One of the first things I noticed in the observation room was a crucifix over the door. I was immediately washed over with a sense of comfort and peace. I knew I was in the right place. And for the record, the care I received was excellent.

On cutting the cord: One of the toughest parts of the experience was to be without my laptop for 12+ hours. God bless Mike for bringing it to me at 9:30pm. In the absence of the laptop, I made do with Facebooking and texting from my cell phone. Yesterday, catching up on e-mails from work, I read one from my boss to all our staff that said "Amy is making up for not having a laptop by texting six times as usual." Seriously, if I was without my laptop and my smartphone for that long, I think I'd have a coronary for real.

On potassium: My friend Beth is a dietitian. I was telling her that I didn't know how my potassium could be low because I'd had a banana for breakfast on Tuesday morning. She said that bananas don't really have has much potassium as people think. (Sorry Chiquita banana lady.) In fact, she said for potassium, you'd be better off eating a whole fresh orange. Who knew?

On with the show: When I got home on Wednesday, I did lay down to take a nap. But once the boys came home from school, it was business as usual. Mike and the kids did a good job of picking up the house while I was gone,  (I should be hospitalized more often!) but I loaded the breakfast dishes that were waiting there, went to school to pick Annie up from play practice, met up with my favorite camera dude at the grocery store on the corner to shoot another IN Shape Indiana segment, then went to the grocery store. When the doctor said I could resume my normal activities, I don't think he knew what I was in for.

On grocery stores and milk: I still have more Nature's Dairy milk coupons for you Central Indiana people. 

Thanks once again to Mrs. 4444s for hosting today's Friday Fragments. That's one thing that's always good for the heart. And if Friday Fragments don't give you enough of a lift going into the weekend, check out the great links on Boost My Blog Friday at Design it Chic:

Why do Catholics do that?

The other day in response to my "Givin' it up" entry, Momza asked me to explain the whole concept of Lent to her sweet little Mormon self. And thanks to the great homily by Fr. Paul on Ash Wednesday I can do just that!

Lent is the period of preparation before Easter. As Catholics, we're called to do 3 things during Lent:

1. Pray
2. Fast
3. Give alms

Each one of these gives us the opportunity to work on our relationships -- with God, with ourselves and with others.

Pray: We're called to do something new or extra in our prayer life to strengthen our relationship with God. For some people that might be getting up 10 minutes earlier to read the Bible. Some may choose to pray the rosary daily. For me, I'm going to bed earlier and using the time to read/reflect using the book Reliving the Passion (written by Mike's Godfather, Walt Wangerin). Praying for a parking spot up close the entrance of the grocery store does not count.

Fast: This is where the giving up comes in. Each person chooses for him/herself what to give up for Lent, although universally Catholics do not eat meat (beef, chicken, pork, veal) on Ash Wednesday or on Fridays during Lent. When I was a kid, we always gave up candy which made an Easter basket full of jelly beans, marshmallow Peeps and Reese's peanut butter eggs extra special.

There are two ideas behind fasting. One is self-discipline. The other is rooting out things in our character that aren't good -- something that hopefully continues after Easter. So giving up pop is self-discipline; giving up cussing is about rooting out a yucky part of my character.

A third idea is just a myth, though it seems pretty plausible based on my experience. That is that we give up things during Lent so that our mothers can lay the guilt on us when we cave and sneak a tiny bite of brownie even though we've given up chocolate.

Give alms: This is about relating with others. Doing acts of charity -- donating money, working at soup kitchen, volunteering at a nursing home -- helps keep "do unto others" fresh in our minds. This is the one piece of Lent that I'm struggling with. Not that I don't want to do it, but I don't know what to do and where to schedule it in. I'd like to find a service activity that our whole family can participate in, so I'm still looking.

Lent is over on Easter Sunday. If you count the days, there are actually 46 days in the season, not 40. Which is where the confusion over Sundays comes in. Liturgically, Sundays are a day of celebration, so many people consider them "Little Easters" and allow themselves whatever they have otherwise given up. Other people stay true to their Lenten promises daily until Easter. This is a point of controversy in my house. As is why you can eat eggs on Friday, but not chicken.

There is no punishment for breaking your Lenten promise. It's between you and God -- and your children if they hear you accidentally say "$hit I forgot to thaw the meat for dinner!" and they know you gave up cussing for Lent.

And that, Momza, in a nutshell is Lent. Thanks for asking!

Why first-born Catholic Leos should not blog

When I first started this blog almost seven months ago, it was really to give myself a space to write more often. Honestly.

Figuring that if I am going to take the time to write, it would be nice if a few people read my blog, I sent the link to a few family and friends. From time to time, someone would comment on something I'd written -- and that was fun.

Then I figured out that I could publicize my blog on my Facebook page and in a couple of internet communities where I hang out. About the same time, I learned about "followers" and how to give folks the opportunity to subscribe to the 4th Frog.

That's where the egotistical craziness began. I started keeping an eye on the number of followers my blog has. I was over them moon when that number hit double digits.

Shortly after, I found out about Google Analytics, which allows me to tell on a daily basis how many visits I've had to my blog on any given day (not by whom, just how many). And the prideful Leo in me started fluffing its mane.

Then the other day, I noticed that I had inched up to 43 followers! Certainly 50 cannot be far away. However, the next day my bubble burst when I opened the page and saw only 42 followers.

Immediately the people pleasing first-born in me teamed up with the easily guilted Catholic in me and began to wonder "what did I do wrong?" Why did someone decide to unfollow me?

Maybe the picture of me in a bathing suit in the Punta Cana post was too much to handle? Perhaps the defector hates Jodi Picoult and anyone who likes her writing? Maybe he or she feels, as I have been lately, that I've gotten away from my humorous voice? What could it have been?

As if I am not awake at night enough, the worry and the guilt just might disrupt my sleep. So, as I see it, I have one of two choices to make.

I can go back to remembering that this blog is, at its root, for me. A place for me to creatively stretch my brain muscles. Or, I can arrogantly suggest that each one of you invite a friend to check out the Fourth Frog and consider joining the ranks of Frog Followers.

What's a people pleasing first-born, guilty feeling Catholic, proud Leo to do?

Testify!

So I went to this women's fellowship meeting at a Missionary Baptist Church yesterday, which may not seem significant or out of the ordinary, except for the fact that I am a cradle Catholic.

But my friend Jane invited (read: blackmailed) me to go with her. She's been inviting me to attend one of these gatherings for six years. Sometimes I've declined because of legitimate conflicts. Other times, I've turned her down for fear of having my Catholic-ness corrupted.

Yesterday, I tried to tell her I couldn't go because I had plans to clean out Annie's room and that was going to require a large dumpster and a haz-mat suit. So she offered that if I went with her, she would come help me with Annie's room.

Sold!

"How long are we going to be gone?" I asked.

"Well, we'll leave here at 2pm. The fellowship is from 3 to 5pm," Jane answered. I figured I could manage that.

So, we drove to the south side of town to where Jane lives to pick up a couple of other "sisters" who would be attending the fellowship meeting as well. Now, in my faith, "sister" means one of two things. An actual relative who shares the same parents -- or a nun. These women were neither.

As Jane was driving to the church, I recognized the names of many neighborhoods, apartment complexes and streets -- because I'm used to seeing them on the nightly news in connection with a shooting or other violent crime.

"What have I gotten myself into?" I wondered, thinking that if I got shot Mike would be eternally perplexed as to why I was in that area of town it the first place.

But I trust Jane and just said a little prayer that my heart would be open -- and that no one would ask me if I've been saved.

We arrived at the little cinderblock church and went in to set up the meal. In addition to getting help with Annie's room, I was going to get to eat Jane's cooking, which is always delicious.

As I walked to the kitchen, which was directly off the sanctuary, I notice a large red drum set right in the front of the church. I think the Pope would faint.

The fellowship was set to begin at 3:00pm. So at 3:45pm, things got underway with a prayer over the food. Now, the most common Catholic prayer before meals starts with "Bless us, O Lord and these thy gifts..." and is pretty short. Can't let the food get cold!

But this was an extemporaneous prayer that started soft and slow, then quickly gained speed and volume. It was led by Sister Someone, but as she went on..."and Father we thank you for your presence here..." other women chimed in "Amen to that!," "Yes Lord!" and "mmmhmmm!"

Prayer was over, the food was on and the fellowship study was about to begin. The topic of the day was having a servant's heart -- a lesson I can certainly use some schooling in. Sister Williams made copies of the lesson for me and I just listened as the discussion went on.

I was pretty amazed at how these women -- there were about nine in the room -- could quote Scripture like I quote...well nothing. I can't quote anything like they could spout Bible verses.

I have to admit that my brain wasn't fully there all the time. I was thinking about what I needed to do when we got home. Of course, I didn't have a watch and Jane informed me the two clocks on the wall were both broken. But finally, Sister Someone asked for the time. 5:09pm.

"If I could have just 15 more minutes of your time," she said.

Sister Someone was determined to end on praiseful note. She offered up two Scripture passages -- Old and New Testament -- that talked about how the Lord does not change. (Of course I can't quote them to you here.)

Then, she really got going.

"If you have an need in your life, ask Jehovah Jireh -- the Lord who provides!"

"Amen! You know it!," cried the other sisters.

"If you have an ache or an illness, ask Jehovah Raffa -- the Lord who heals!"

"Praise Jesus!"

"If you want to know what's going to happen tomorrow or next year, call out to El Roi -- the God who sees!"

"Hallelujah! Amen!"

About 30 minutes later, Sister Someone asked Jane to lead the final prayer. I love Jane and I've asked her to pray for intentions before. But when that woman prays, she PRAYS -- long and hard. So she started the closing prayer, again soft and slow, and again like Sister Someone's opening prayer, got faster and louder. The other women in the room seemed to catch the spirit from the air and echoed with their own shouts of praise.

Then all of the sudden, someone started singing the kind of singing I've only seen in the movies. The soulful, joyful, clappy singing. It was what my Annie would call a "Praise Jesus! Hallelujah!" moment.

When it was finished, many of the women thanked me for joining them and I genuinely thanked them for having me. The invited me back and I said I'd think about it. Frankly, I'd like to see that big red drum set in action sometime.

Now, before my mother faints reading this, I'm not going to abandon Catholicism. But being there was a good reminder that we are all -- regardless of our denominations -- children of God.

And it was 6:30pm.

Happiness is...

...starting my day by attending the all-school Mass at my kids' Catholic school.

The music is peppy and engaging and all the more appealing when sung en masse by 400+ kids. This morning's opening song was "Blessed Be the Lord My Rock," which is one of my favorites and will be stuck in my head the rest of the day. Last week's opener was "We are the Family," which is equally as catchy. Click here to listen to a sample of it. Just know that when our kids sing it, it sounds a lot more genuine and a lot less hokey! I'll try to get a sample of "Blessed Be the Lord My Rock" to share as well.

But it's not just the music. The homilies at the all-school Masses are geared toward the kids and are generally interactive. It's always fun to hear how the kids will answer questions posed by the priest. Last year, Fr. Paul asked the kids what commandment would they add if they were writing the 10 commandments. My Charlie answered "Do not punch your sister." That kid is bound for the seminary, I tell you.

Entertainment value aside, kid-friendly homilies are good for me too, as sometimes my faith is not as mature as my age. I benefit from the message put forth simply and directly.

The sign of peace gives me a chance to find each one of my children and give them a hug and an "I love you." I like to think of it as a way to make up for the often harried and occasionally harsh manner in which I shoo them out the door on Friday mornings.

When I receive Christ in the Eucharist, I am reminded that no matter how overwhelmed I feel by the busy-ness and the business of my life, I can do all things through Him because He is with me -- literally with me in the Eucharist. I find myself more present to the gift of the Eucharist at school Masses than on Sunday because I've not spent the point up to communion calming wiggling children, answering "How many more songs?" fifty times, instructing someone to stand up straight, and saying, "No, you can't go to the bathroom. You should have gone before."

Finally, I love attending school Masses because I get to look around and see all the people my children interact with on a daily basis -- teachers, staff and other students. I see them joining together in prayer, song and deliberate expression of our faith. And I know that our decision to send them to this school is the right one.

Thanks Tony!

A few days ago, I borrowed an electronic key to the community pool from our next door neighbors. Within 20 minutes of having the key in my hand, I lost it somewhere in my house.

I searched for 30 minutes before I had to leave for work. No key.

I asked Annie to look for it. No luck.

I asked the babysitter to look for it. No help.

So, it was time to get serious and call on St. Anthony, the Catholic patron saint of lost things. When we pray to St. Anthony -- or any saint for that matter -- it's not worshipping that person or putting them before God. Rather, it's like asking a friend to pray for you.

"Tony, Tony look around. Something's lost and can't be found. Please help me find the missing pool key," I said as I left work for the day and headed home.

Then I really didn't even think about it until I arrived home. I walked thru the door and into the seldom-used living room. Three steps into the room, I looked down and there, sticking out from under the ottoman, was the missing pool key!

St. Anthony to the rescue again!

Adventures in Painting, part I

This past spring, I wrote a series of humorous essays about my experience giving our 1st floor bathroom a makeover. Thought I'd kick off my blog by posting these. Here's the first one:

April 2, 2008


Sometimes it might be easier to be Baptist.

My son Charlie is preparing for his First Holy Communion. Generally, in the second grade, Catholic boys and girls learn about the mystery of Jesus Christ being present in the Eucharist. It is a critical step in the Catholic faith.

At the same time, their parents try to solve mysteries like “what is that melted into the carpet and will it come up before the First Communion party?” They look at their homes with a critical eye, determining what must be attended to before guests will be allowed into the house.

I’ve known this event in Charlie’s life was coming. And I’ve known that the first floor bathroom needed serious attention before the festivities. So, last weekend, in an unexplained burst of energy, I peeled the no-longer pretty picket fence wallpaper border from the walls of the bathroom. I went to the basement, dug out a print that has been in storage since we moved to this house 10 years ago and determined it to be just right to be the focal point of the new bathroom décor. I took down the oversized mirror that I’ve hated for years. And I made the first of two big mistakes in this bathroom re-model.

First, I decided that the walls would go from chambray blue to sunflower yellow. Then – here comes the second big mistake – I decided that I would do the painting myself.

So, I took all the hardware off the walls. No problem. I walked into Home Depot and purchased spackle, painter’s tape, primer, paint and this cool little edger thing that would make getting up to the ceiling and down to the baseboards easier. I even knew to have the primer tinted yellow. Pretty smart, huh?!

I spackled and re-spackled where needed. I sanded the spackle down to a smooth finish. So far, so good. Expertly masked off the baseboards and vanity with painter’s tape and began to wonder why we had wasted so much money hiring people to do our painting for us.

Now it was the time I’d been waiting for. I cracked open the lid of the primer and stirred it with excitement. It was such a good color, maybe I’d only need one coat of primer and one coat of paint.

I used the handy edger tool and filled in the rest with the roller. A few drips on the floor (and a couple of new “blonde” highlights on my dark hair), but not too bad. By this time it was after midnight, so I decided to call it a night. I washed out my paint tools and fell into bed.

In the morning light, I could see that one coat of primer was not going to be enough. So I set up shop to apply a second coat of primer. Two coats of primer, one coat of paint. That might do it.

Annie asked if she could help and quite frankly I was ready for a little break. Since it was just primer, I figured it would be all right to let her try. Besides, it would be good life experience for her. And really, she didn’t do a bad job. Well, except for the tiger stripes that now line her bangs. And the strip of yellow primer running down the white vanity. But all in all, not too bad.

Lunch time brought another painting “time out.” A hearty meal of pigs-in-a-blanket and strawberries strengthened my resolve to get back in the bathroom and put on what I hoped would be the first and final coat of real paint.

Wow! Now, that is YELLOW. Like a school bus. I’m sure by the time we hang the mirror (let’s make it a big one) and the picture that I’d dug out of storage, the impact of the color will be a bit toned down. So I painted on…

On the walls, on my hands, on my feet. My resolve to be a careful painter was beginning to wane. I was frustrated that while the edger did make nice, straight edges, when the paint started to dry, the “frame” created by the tool was quite apparent. I burned my wrist on hot light bulbs while trying to paint around the light fixture.

One coat on. Not enough – by a longshot. Probably will require at least two more coats. Do professional painters give you a sympathy discount to finish the job you’ve foolishly already started?

If it weren’t for First Communion, my bathroom would still be chambray blue and my feet, hands and hair would not be sporting streaks of sunflower yellow. Somedays it seems it might be easier to be Baptist.

For Part II of Adventures in Painting, click here.